


The Air in My Lungs

by sunflowerbright



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, M/M, angst angst, canon character death, one-sided angst, otp: i am wild, unrequited feelings sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 02:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/657211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire asks. And asks again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Air in My Lungs

 

There was definitely a sense of excitement, maybe even grandeur, if one chooses to call it so, to that first night. A sense of foreboding, perhaps.

Or maybe Grantaire just saw it that way because he was dead-drunk.

To say it was a night like no other would definitely be wrong: rather it was a night _exactly_ like all the others here at the Café, with Enjolras standing, his minions – no, disciples (Grantaire had been given a strict lecture after the first time he had called them all minions, and much as he enjoyed getting a rise out of their very own marble statue, the rapid descend into becoming himself what he would have termed said ’minion’ eventually made him stop altogether) sitting around him, watching in awe, nodding and blinking and focusing on nothing else than the man before them, speaking and glowing in the dim light from the candles.

Such was the thrall Enjolras placed over people. Even people dead-drunk on their feet.

It was a night like any other, yet it ended differently. Grantaire would not be able to tell you what moved him, on this night of all, to walk forward and actually do what he had longed to do almost since the first time he had seen golden curls and fiery eyes. He had stayed close to Enjolras ever since, revelling in the warmth that flowed from him, counting the smiles (too few, too far in-between), stealing touches. There was no mistaking the exasperation in the looks the other man gave him – sometimes it was scorn as well. Oftentimes pity. Grantaire always pretended not to see, pretended not to care, pretended that he could not change, could not do better, even if doing better may mean…

Perhaps he had dreamed it, dreamed that he had let all of it go, the wine and the dry, curling smirk that came as easily to him now as breathing. Perhaps he had dreamed that it was his very own Apollo, walking up and closing those long fingers around his wrist and pulling him forward.

As it was, Grantaire was the one who stumbled on his feet as the last of the trusted lieutenants disappeared into the night, and he was kissing Enjolras before he could even think to stop himself.

_Perhaps he had dreamed it._

For a moment it was nearly perfect, because for just the tiniest moment, after the initial shock had settled, there was the softest press right back, as if testing, as if searching.

Grantaire would never know what Enjolras found, and what was the final straw to make him pull away. Realization of who it actually was he was kissing, is his ultimate guess.

Grantaire was drunk though, and grasping the upper-arms of the other man, as if to beg or hold or just to keel over he was not sure. His tongue darted out to wet dry lips, and when he looked up, Enjolras eyes were on fire yet again, with anger and something indescribable as well.

“Do you permit it?” Grantaire’s voice was a breathless plea and he found himself hating how it sounded, yet wanting to repeat the words again, and again and again, until they went heeded.

Enjolras pushed him away, not un-gently. “It is late,” he said, turning around. “Go and seek some rest, Grantaire.”

It was the same tone he used when speaking to his followers, unyielding and firm. Grantaire knew, with a burning ache in his chest, that this was the kindest he would get from him.

 

*

 

 

It is days later when he wakes from the stupor he sometimes thinks he has been in for years, opening his eyes and discovering a world in chaos. His head is pounding in tune with his heart as he stands, yet he notices none of this. There is red among the chaos, and he is moving towards it.

He asks his question again, and this time Enjolras grasps his hand tightly in his own. Neither of them flinches.


End file.
